


Frontiers and Boundaries

by UnshoddenShipper



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Drinking, Established Relationship, Hangover, M/M, Smoking, Swearing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnshoddenShipper/pseuds/UnshoddenShipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Grif and Simmons get drunk-married in the Vegas Quadrant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frontiers and Boundaries

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/gifts).



> Dancing Grimmons prompted by Goodluckdetective!

You’re Dexter Grif, slayer of snack cakes and born to take it easy. You woke up this morning in _probably_ the worst shape of your life, barring that time with a tank. 

The room was blinding. You were on top of the covers in yesterday’s clothes with the shoes still on. You had to peel yourself out of Simmons’ clingy death grip, and drag your sorry ass to the hotel bathroom, where you puked and it helped a little. You hate puking. 

There was glitter in it. You weren't sure what was going on there.

Then Simmons' snoring stopped, and you were rubbing his back as HE threw up.

You drew a shower as he brushed his teeth, skin oddly grey as he stared into the mirror with dead eyes. Getting clothes off made every muscle protest and you washed in silence, trading off the shampoo. Water hitting the tub drummed like thunder _inside_ your fucking skull. The first words spoken today were from Simmons as you rinsed out your hair; they were hushed and sounded like sandpaper.

“What the fuck did we do last night?”

You huffed, moving so he could get under the water. “I hope it was worth this,” you mumbled back.

“Me too.”

There was complimentary breakfast, where he held his head and told you greasy foods curing hangovers is a myth and you told him to eat his damn toast. And it wasn't ‘til after you got back to the room and collapsed for a nap together that you saw something. 

Blinds shut tight, Simmons’ head on your chest and an arm around him, you were half asleep. Squinting at the ceiling. Something- you don’t know- drew your eye to the nightstand closest to you, and there was a paper on it you didn’t remember. It looked very official- official enough for a seal?

Hindsight is 20/20, but you really should have left it until after you slept. But of course, you were curious.

That cost you a nap.

That cost you a nap and now you’re in a taxi, heading for some chapel in the Madison District that you... apparently drunk-married Simmons in last night.

You fucking _married_ Simmons. The real deal.

Like... you’re a husband. Sitting here with him, it's weirding you out how totally appropriate it feels having Simmons as your husband. You're sidled up against his gawky limbs; arm-to-arm, leg-to-leg. This is the man you have legally bound yourself to for life, and he did the same thing. A mutual husbanding went down last night.

It’s not to say the thought hasn’t crossed your mind after years of banging, but dude. What the fuck.

It doesn’t feel any different. He’s just Simmons. Still Simmons, because according to this certificate neither of you changed your names; and seriously, thank god for that. But all things considered this is a quiet taxi ride.

Simmons had to _“verify the legality”_ of the paper in your hands and you’re just curious, so here you are- hungover as fuck and standing in a lobby of some kind. 

Simmons still looks like shit; bags under his eyes, rumpled everything, washed out. He didn't grow facial hair, so there wasn't a shadow, and you probably look worse. He leans towards you, lowering his voice. “This place isn’t nearly as shitty as I was expecting.”

“Y’know, me either? Kudos to drunk us, I guess.”

You speak with an officiant, and learn two things: one, yes, everything was legally binding. Your marriage license was filed with the county last night and you’re holding a copy of your certificate as issued by the county clerk, signed by both of you. The second thing you learn is being here triggers memories of your wedding- it’s fuzzy, but you definitely fed Simmons cake with your fingers. 

And you’re pretty sure this officiant knows things she’s not telling; she’s got this look in her eye…

Simmons drags you out before you can investigate, and ignorance is probably bliss. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. The door shuts behind you with a sense of finality, and you’re left squinting in mid-day sun. Simmons strides forward, fingers laced at the nape of his neck. His back’s to you, facing skyscrapers in the distance but you can feel the nervousness in him.

You give the quiet time to breathe, just watching him.

“What do you wanna do?” you ask at length.

He turns to you, hands falling to his hips. He purses his lips.

“What do _you_ want to do?”

You know without thinking, knew from the second you saw the paper. But you bite your tongue.

Instead, you swallow thickly. “Do you wanna divorce?”

“Do you?”

“The fuck, Simmons, you can’t answer every question with a question!”

“I want to know what you think!” 

“I asked you first!”

“Yeah, well, you... This is a big deal! I didn’t know you were even interested in _talking_ about getting married, let alone doing it.”

“So what, we should call this off?" You cock your head, gesturing helplessly. "‘Cause we can. We can go to the city hall or some shit right now and it’ll be like this never happened.”

“You seem pretty interested in that!” There it is, there's the voice crack.

“Says who? I just want you to know we can.”

“I know that, trust me, and you’ve suggested it twice!”

“You still haven’t answered my question!” your volume raises, voice scratchy and head throbbing.

“Neither have you!”

You suck a deep breath and hold it, feeling your blood pressure rise. Stubborn son of a bitch! You step closer, open your mouth to chew his ass, but there’s this... look in his face that gives you pause. It’s buried under his pissy attitude but, it’s there. Hurt and worry. 

At length, you breathe out, deflating as you let it go. You feel smaller.

“No.”

“What?” Dick asks, tone still sharp.

“I don’t wanna divorce,” muttered; eyes anywhere but his face.

“I seriously can’t hear you, Grif.”

“I don’t want to divorce!” you snap. “That’s stupid, I just married you. Of course I don’t wanna divorce.”

You’re met with big blinking eyes, and tension eases out of Simmons’ body. He looks down, abashed.

“Me either.”

“I need a cigarette,” you grouse, you dig into your pocket for a carton. It’s a pleasant surprise when he doesn’t bitch at you for it, allowing you to light up in peace.

The quiet is tired, but it’s not tense.

“First night on leave,” Simmons muses. “First night.”

You snort, taking a drag.

“I guess that makes the rest of leave our honeymoon?” he prompts.

You cock an eyebrow at that, blowing out smoke. “Well I mean,” you clear your throat, face getting warm. “We gotta have a reception before a honeymoon right?”

Simmons smiles- a little wry, a little more fond. “I _think_ we had one, but all I remember is cake.”

“Dude, me too! That must have been good cake.”

“I can, um… Google where there’s a bakery around here.”

You take a puff of smoke. “Go for round two, huh?”

“Well, I'd like to remember it.”

“You don’t have to convince me, man. I could eat sweets with you all fuckin’ day.” You hadn’t meant that to sound sappy, but it kinda did.

\- - -

The second night of leave finds you back in your hotel room. There’s boxes of takeout on the dresser, and the war-torn remains of a chocolate cake. The radio’s on a pretty decent channel and you’re just trying to make out, but Simmons insists- insists!- it’s time to break out the champagne. Not cava! Actual champagne. Classy. 

You sit back and watch the way he moves across the room, wrapping a towel around the bottle as he pulls it from a bucket of mostly-melted ice.

“C’mere,” he nods you over, tearing the foil off the cork. “I think we’re supposed to do this together.”

He loosens the cage, offering the bottle to you, and after a brief exchange over whose hands go where and _how do we do this_ Simmons squawks as the cork pops open.

“No foam? Rip off.” You grab two flutes.

“Good, then it won’t get on the carpet.”

“Nerd.”

What looks like smoke but isn't wisps down from the bottle. As you pour a glass for each of you, you figure there should probably be a toast or something involved here. Heat pools in your face and you clam up, handing him his drink; he looks from it to you. Simmons opens his mouth to speak- rethinks it- and hooks his arm around yours, hands holding glasses linked at the elbow. His face is getting red but he smiles at the look you give him.

“Really?”

“Oh yeah.” The smile gets bigger. Dorkier.

You make a _‘psshh’_ noise, but when he raises the flutes to drink you drink with him. It tastes like dry wine and club soda.

You purse your lips at the glass as its lowered, arm still linked with his. “Okay, now I feel like I got married.”

“That was it? Right there?”

“Yeah dude, that was pretty ‘unity ceremony’ to me.”

Simmons laughs, sharp and amused and sets his drink down. “Do you wanna dance?” he asks.

“Me?”

“No, dipshit, somebody else.”

“Uh, only if you’re ready to get your socks knocked off.”

He grabs your hand, pulls you back towards the radio. “You sure about that? I don’t know, it’s been awhile.”


End file.
